After this, it is perhaps superfluous to add that the hunter’s name is Nick Robbins. As such he has doubtless been recognized, although it is observable that there is much more expression on his visage than usual. In fact, through the unhandsome exterior, beams a look of fine intelligence that might lead one to suppose the backwoodsman has received a thorough education at some time of his life.
Nick Robbins is approaching a deep ravine that lies a short distance away. He moves toward it step by step, with studied circumspection, his quick eye flashing from right to left occasionally, but the greater part of the time fastened upon the ravine in front. He creeps along with that caution usually exercised by hunters when stealing upon the game, or scouts when nearing an enemy’s camp, and yet he is the only person or living thing in sight. It is evident, however, from his manner and actions, that he is not only intent on reaching a certain point ahead, but is extremely fearful that his footsteps will betray him to somebody or something before he can reach it.
“Strange that he should go there,” mutters the hunter. “Bad as he is, I should never have supposed that he was leagued with the Indians. He entered that ravine as he would have entered his own house, and I know there is a bivouac of savages there. Very well, I shall soon know what it means if I am not discovered, and who knows but at the same time I may obtain proofs of the fellow’s guilt in that other affair? Of course I am already satisfied in my own mind that he is the guilty party, but despite the length of time that I have been a spy upon his movements, and an eavesdropper to his conversations, I have not as yet heard a direct affirmation that such is the truth. But something seems to tell me that the crisis is at hand, and that to-morrow’s sun will reveal wonders to many of our friends. I must now find out what new scheme this villain has hatched.”
Nick Robbins has, by this time, proceeded so far that a confused sound of voices strike upon his ear, coming from the ravine in front. He crouches down on all-fours, and crawls forward with redoubled caution. He sights a wide, smooth ledge of rock, or plateau, that extends out over the gully, and toward this he worms himself, taking great care that he moves no stone in his progress.
He reaches the level platform of rock. He draws himself up to the edge of it, and looks down. Finding that he has chosen the proper point for observation, he lies flat upon his breast and begins to contemplate the scene below him with no slight degree of interest.
A tiny stream ripples through the ravine. On one side of it is a large camp-fire, around which a band of Indians is congregated, sitting or reclining in various attitudes, some breakfasting and some smoking, while others are doing nothing. They number about thirty souls in all, and a single glance at them discovers more than one evidence of the fact that they are, or recently have been, on the war-path. This fact is shown by their scantiness of dress and abundance of paint, they being incumbered with no other garments than leggins and moccasins, and their bodies and faces being plentifully bedaubed with red and yellow ocher. It is further shown by the manner in which they are armed, as they all carry the deadly fire-arms of the white man, instead of the customary bow and arrow; whereas they would prefer the latter weapon on a hunting expedition. But the horrid truth is most loudly proclaimed by the scalps which hang at their girdles, and which have doubtless been torn from the heads of the slaughtered pale-faces.
The gaze of Robbins does not long linger on this savage band. There are others there who claim his attention. At some distance from the main body of Indians, and directly under the rocky ledge on which he is lying, two men stand conversing.
Of these two men, one is no less a personage than the despicable profligate, Jim McCabe! The hunter evinces little surprise, but much interest, as his eyes alight on this man, for he saw him enter the ravine, and now only seeks an explanation of the fellow’s strange actions. McCabe’s companion is obviously the chief, or leader, of the war-party. His title to this distinction is revealed by his bearing, and the superiority of his dress and adornments. To tell the color of his skin it would be necessary to remove the thick covering of paint from his face and body, but that he is not an Indian, our spy begins to suspect after the first look! A closer survey convinces him of this fact. There are no high cheek-bones there—no sharp Roman nose—no stoical stoniness of features—nor even that style of standing characteristic of his savage followers. Besides this, he speaks the English language as fluently as Jim McCabe himself. In all probability he is a white man—one of those degraded, crime-hardened wretches, who forswear their own race forever, that they may plunder and murder to their heart’s content, beyond the restrictions of the law.
“You are not looking well, my boy,” are the first words the hunter distinguishes after taking his position on the rock, and it is the white chief who gives utterance to them.
“Am I not?” carelessly answers McCabe, who really has grown pale and haggard since his adventure of last night. “I am not aware of any feeling that may account for the look.”